The penthouse was empty. Again. The bed untouched, no trail of clothing, no steam from the bathroom or the smell of cologne. Even the carpet looked new and undisturbed. This was day three that Alfred suspected he'd find Bruce passed out in his underground hideaway. If Master Wayne hasn't gotten a proper night's sleep, he may not enjoy his surprise, thought the butler to himself, swiftly turning from the room. Down the stairs, and on his way out of the penthouse, a warm basket of food bedside him in his car, Alfred looked thoughtfully at the letter nestled delicately atop the warm container…
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Oh, moving hurt. There was stiffness in his neck that threatened him with a sharp pain and a dizzy spell should he move too quickly. Opening his eyes, Bruce saw a pair of crazed, acid green ones peering back at him. A smile of carved flesh grinned, happy he was finally awake. Silent laughter. Bruce Wayne's first instinct was to lash out. Punch that face until every bone within it shattered under the pressure of his fists. But then the realization came: He was staring at his own computer monitor, and there was a soft clearing of the throat coming from somewhere behind him.
That's right. This was just a video. A video of the Joker's break-out from Arkham. He was loose on Gotham again, and Bruce was all too keen on the kind of devastation the madman could cause. The havoc he liked to wreak on people's lives. All he could take away from someone just so he could watch the city go up in flames. The memory of just a few months previous brought a wealth of emotions to the waking man. Anger. Sorrow. An empty kind of pain. They made him quake, and he'd almost forgotten someone else was there until the soft, resounding sound came again.
"Alfred," Bruce said, somewhat hoarse and sounding much like a child caught out of bed on Christmas Eve. "I meant to go to bed…"
Dutifully, the butler placed the warm, now uncovered, tray before the man, shaking his head. A pleasant smile smoothed his face.
"No matter, Master Wayne. Are you going to go see her?"
"What are you talking about?"
"If you paid a little more attention to the good news in Gotham, sir, and a little less to the bad, you'd know who I was talking about." A few expert taps to the computer's keys and an article shot up onto the screen, covering the grainy video of the Joker's bloody escape from his prison. The picture accompanying the article nearly caused Bruce to topple his breakfast from his lap and right onto the cement floor.
"Is that…?"
"Yes, sir. She's come home."
On the screen was a picture of a woman Bruce hadn't seen in ten years. Not since her haughty departure from Gotham City at the age of seventeen. Her hair was a pale white-blonde, so icy it looked as though it were platinum. It nearly matched the porcelain hue of her delicate skin. Large, almond-shaped eyes stared at him, the same color as springtime Violets, and her plump lips curled up in the corners. She looked like the devilish little imp she was years ago, although more polished. More elegant. Her appearance now, as it was back then, was astonishingly breathtaking.
"Master Wayne," interrupted Alfred. "There is an article, as well…" Bruce gave him a look that clearly told the man to hush, but he only chuckled and watched as his employer's eyes scanned the lengthy story.
"She's performing in Gotham's Opera House all week? I should go. It says the seats are all sold out, th-…" Bruce trailed off, seeing the envelope with his name on it in a smooth scrawl. From it, he pulled a note. Tucked inside that was a pair of tickets, reserving the two balcony seats just to the left of the main stage. Smiling, he turned his eyes to the paper that had housed the tickets.
Bruce,
Hoping this reaches you in high spirits!
I wanted to invite you to my Opening Night – I hope you can make it.
Bring Alfred with you! I do miss you both and hope you haven't forgotten me.
If you do come, sneak backstage after the show, and we'll go somewhere for dinner.
My treat, Hotshot! I called it!
Caroline D.
Forgotten her? No. Bruce just never thought she'd come back to Gotham. Not after the ugliness. Her adoptive family's treatment of her, his own coldness when she said she wanted more for herself than a poor housewife's life. She wanted to be a star, bright as one in the night sky out in the country. And look at you now, he thought, staring at her picture again, noting her high, cat-like cheekbones. She looked like a doll. Something so perfect you'd be afraid of breaking her. Oh, but most didn't know how tough she was. The tomboy at school, never afraid to scuff her knees or get a little dirty. He wondered how she'd changed.
"You're right, Alfred," Bruce stated as he placed the note back in its envelope, the scent of a spicy perfume reaching his nose.
"Sir?"
"I need to start paying more attention to the good things happening to Gotham…"